


To Wed A Spy

by Jenna_of_the_Red_Robes



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Tumblr Prompt, Wedding Fluff, gallya wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:45:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenna_of_the_Red_Robes/pseuds/Jenna_of_the_Red_Robes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes based around Illya and Gaby's wedding -- the picking of the best man, the dress, the first dance song, and the wedding itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Wed A Spy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt. My tmfu blog is lil-chop-shop-girl if you want to check it out.
> 
> Enjoy this incredibly fluffy little thing about the Gallya wedding. :)

_**The Best Man** _

Illya sat in front of the chessboard, deep in thought. He relished this rare moment of solitude in his tumultuous life. All that existed was the board and the pieces – pieces that followed rules which were predictable, that he could control. Playing chess offered the order that the Russian’s mind craved in his chaotic world.

Finally, he saw the perfect move. He moved his hand deliberately towards the game piece, his fingers hovering over it. Just as he was about to touch it – the door to the room burst open.

With reflexives honed after years of training in the KGB, Illya rose rapidly from his seat, already on the offensive. He faced his intruder and then proceeded to sigh loudly once he recognized who it was.

“Cowboy.” Illya said curtly, sitting back into his chair.

Napoleon smirked as he advanced towards the spy. “No need to ask, Peril. I will most assuredly accept this great honor.”

The Russian narrowed his eyes in irritation. Solo had the irksome habit of constantly interrupting his chess sessions. Illya assumed that he did so purposefully. “What honor?” He asked grudgingly, halfway hoping that if he played along then Napoleon would leave sooner rather than later.

“The honor of being your best man at the wedding. No need to fret, I accept the position.”

_**The Dress** _

“No, Gaby. This will not be happening.” Illya said resolutely, looking down at his feisty bride-to-be.

She smiled at his serious expression. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll be in good hands. ”

“No, you’ll be in Cowboy’s hands. And he does not know anything about real fashion.”

Gaby put her hand into Illya’s. “Everything will be fine. Solo is just going to be offering advice. I will be the one deciding on the dress.”

The Russian fiddled with the engagement ring on her finger – a special black pearl ring that had become a memento for the pair after their time in Rome. “I should go with. Just to be sure.” He glanced away, his expression almost abashed.

Gaby laughed lightly as she slipped out of his grasp.

“Absolutely not, Kuryakin.” Napoleon said smoothly as he approached the couple. “It’s bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the big day.” The suave American offered his arm to Gaby. “Ready to go wedding dress shopping, my dear?”

He smirked over his shoulder at Illya as they walked away.

_**The Song** _

Napoleon lounged on a couch in their safe house, his position somehow effortlessly relaxed and regal. “Have you two decided upon a song yet?” He questioned loudly, trying to be heard over the music Gaby was currently blasting through the room. 

Illya sat in a nearby armchair with a book in his hands that he was trying and failing to read, thanks to the extremely distracting volume of his fiancée’s music. “For what?” The Russian countered, finally conceding his defeat by shutting the novel.

Solo looked at him incredulously, an expression Illya had grown to despise since it was often sent his way. “For your first dance as man and wife with Gabs. You need to pick a proper song; some say it sets the tone for the whole marriage.” He stated matter-of-factly, as if Illya should have _obviously_ known what he was talking about.

Illya suddenly realized that the music had stopped playing. Before he had a chance to respond and tell Solo that he most certainly did _not_ dance, Gaby was at his side – holding a record in her hand.

“I’ve already picked one.” She said, twirling around the men with the vinyl held aloft above her head. She started humming lightly as she sashayed past them before hopping onto the nearby coffee table.

Gaby began singing in a ridiculously low-pitched voice, trying to imitate Elvis Presley. “Wise men say, only fools rush in. But I can’t help falling in love with you.”

A confused Illya looked towards Napoleon who just laughed at the man’s bewilderment.

“I Can’t Help Falling in Love by Elvis. Not a bad choice.” Solo said amusedly. “I believe you’ve muddled up the words a tad though. If I’m not mistaken, the correct line is: ‘Only fools are Russian.’” The American smirked widely at his witticism.

Gaby rolled her eyes as she stepped off of the table – her makeshift stage – and walked towards Illya, who looked both vaguely bemused and offended.

_**The Wedding** _

Illya was nervous – a sensation he decided that he was not at all fond of. His hands were clasped in front of him, his knuckles white from the strain. He took deep breaths as he stared purposefully ahead, towards the doorway that Gaby would be walking through any minute now.

His best man, Napoleon, stood beside him. The American looked as impeccable as ever, a proud smile upon his handsome features as he regarded the Russian. “Looking a little worried there, Peril. Concerned she won’t show?” He said teasingly, and was unsurprised when Illya just responded with an icy glare.

Waverly, the officiator, stood on the other side of the groom. Mr. Sanders, Solo’s CIA handler, was in the room as well to stand as a witness.

Finally, Gaby appeared in the doorway, a true vision in white. Illya’s eyes widened as he regarded her: the beautiful, strong, German woman he was to wed. Perhaps it was a glorious twist of fate that had determined that the KGB agent’s life would become intertwined with that of the little chop shop girl. _His_ little chop shop girl.

She walked towards him with determined steps, her ivory gown swirling around her ankles. Gaby was truly stunning and practically glowing with happiness. She smiled widely at Illya who responded in kind – for once not caring that his usual emotionless mask was being foiled with a joyous grin.

He reached out his hand to her when she approached, her smaller one fitting perfectly within his.

The ceremony itself passed by in a blissful blur, the bride and groom focusing on nothing but each other. The room and its other occupants faded into nonexistence.

All that mattered in that moment was Illya and Gaby – the Russian KGB agent and the German chop shop girl turned British spy who fell in love, against all odds.


End file.
